


Manners (aka: gimme gimme)

by toomanyhometowns



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Allusions to canon-typical violence, Don't copy to another site, F/F, Project Freelancer, Strong Women with Strong Personalities, implied sexual content with some on-screen smooching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomanyhometowns/pseuds/toomanyhometowns
Summary: queercatlady asked:Let's go for something different! South/Carolina, #36. Manners :D[in which South doesn't listen and Carolina's out of patience. well, nearly.]
Relationships: Agent Carolina/Agent South Dakota (Red vs. Blue)
Collections: tumblrfic exodus





	Manners (aka: gimme gimme)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this eons ago, but I've officially gotten to the stage of Quar where I'm going through old blogs and organizing my writing like I've been threatening to do for years, so now it's going up on AO3!

"Quit hogging the rocket launcher, fuckstick, you know you're just gonna waste it," Carolina hears through the low-frequency buzzing in her comms. The training compound they were sent to sabotage has a jammer installed, but it's old and weak and only serves to add a melodic undertone to the twins' bickering.

North sounds as out of breath as his sister, saying, "'Gimme, gimme' never ge—ow, fuck—"

There's the comm-muffled report of a rifle being fired, and Carolina finishes setting up the transmitter. She runs through the checklist York had drilled into her brain, indulging in the thrill of satisfaction as each crucial step is marked _done, perfectly_.

South cackles, and there's an explosion in the central building. Carolina allows herself a smirk and hopes it isn't audible when she radios the team to prep for extraction.

—

The cafeteria staff have asked her for her training schedule.

"We could just use the warning," Gaia said apologetically.

South had been breathless with glee, and York hadn't been much better. Maine grabbed each of their heads and shoved them into a couch pillow—this is why he's Carolina's favourite.

"Not a problem," Carolina said, and arranged for it to be sent over.

It's been convenient, and well-worth the mild embarrassment of that first request. It means that today, Carolina's the first one in the door of the caf. She's just clear-headed enough through the haze of hunger to grab an extra few slices of garlic toast (bringing her total to an even half-dozen). The engineer in line behind her shoots an incredulous look in the direction of her tray; Carolina could probably incapacitate him without spilling her peach drink.

Maine sits down across from her when she's halfway through inhaling her probably-lasagne. She slides the last piece of garlic toast towards him and smiles through a mouthful of sauce. He smiles back.

"Awww shit, there's _garlic bread_?" South crows, slamming down on the bench beside Carolina. Her hand's out and the toast's in her mouth before Carolina can get a word in edgewise. South moans pornographically, chews violently enough to get crumbs in Carolina's hair.

"Rude," Carolina says, wonders if it sounds as fond as she feels.

"Yeah, but you love me anyways," South replies.

Carolina doesn't dignify that with a response, just raises her eyebrows in Maine's direction.

Maine looks at South, level. (Much like the last building he'd gazed at that way: levelled.)

South's jaw drops. "That was yours?"

Maine tilts his head infinitessimally to one side, and South takes off running.

—

"What the fuck was that?"

"Oh, me saving your ass?"

"Can it. You were out of position. There is such a thing as proper fucking procedure, and just because—"

"That's rich, 'proper procedure' from _you_ —"

"—think you know better, and want to unfuck your leaderboard score doesn't mean you can ignore—"

"Grow up! It was a field decision, Carolina, and I'd make the same one again."

"It was a _stupid decision_ , South! You could have _died_."

Carolina always feels at a disadvantage when she's arguing with South, because growing up with a twin seems to have given her the ability to think ahead while she's shouting, to listen for weakness even as she screams you down. (Carolina grew up with coolly reasoned debates, with _just to play devil's advocate_ and _aren't you overlooking something_?)

So this, this is the first thing Carolina's ever said that's made South shut up.

She whirls around and fixes Carolina with a look that doesn't smoulder so much as it incinerates. She hurls her helmet towards the bin of equipment to be sterilized, a two-handed snap like she's passing a ball to someone she particularly hates, and proceeds to whip pieces of her armour one at a time into the bin with furious precision.

Carolina's not wrong, though, so she squares her jaw and repeats herself, a little gentler, a little cooler. "You could've died, and then where would we be?"

"And if I hadn't done that, _you_ 'd be dead, for starters." South shucks off her undersuit to the waist, unblinking. She crosses her arms over her chest and continues with no small amount of venom in her voice, no less fear: "The chick with the scarab gun would've gotten the drop on you, and you would've bled out or been shoved off the roof."

Carolina can't keep herself from rolling her eyes, and South's mouth twists. It takes Carolina's heart with it.

"Fine," South says. She slams open her locker, pulls out a sweater with a raccoon on it and tugs it over her head. It's soft—Carolina knows this from experience.

"You should shower," Carolina offers. She starts unsealing her armour—gauntlets, greaves, all depressurising with muted hisses—but South's fast in the showers. She'll probably be clean and out of there before Carolina's unsuited.

South strips the rest of the way out of her undersuit and pulls on a pair of shorts that Carolina suspects belong to North. "You should bite me, boss," she says, and disappears from the locker room.

It's quiet; Carolina's alone.

The sound of the water hitting the tiles echoes, and Carolina's muscles twitch and jump as she forces her exhales to lengthen, her inhales to deepen. She should report to the Director for the mission debriefing. She should report to medical because her joints are throbbing in time with her heartbeat. She should eat something.

She knocks on South's door and doesn't wait to be invited in, just punches in her override and strides in like it's her due.

"Fuck off," South grunts. She's got her feet hooked through the bars of CT's bunk and is doing incline sit-ups with her torso dangling off the edge of the bed.

"I don't think I would've died."

South twists to look at her, and something in Carolina's appearance (wet hair, soft shoes, hands in pockets) must meet with her approval. She swings herself onto CT's bunk and rolls to sit up properly.

"I think you would've," she says, and Carolina doesn't let it strike home.

"We're soldiers. On ops, you do what I say—it's not open to interpretation."

"Sure."

Carolina steps forward until she has to crane her neck to look up at South. "And if you deviate from the plan, you tell me."

"Sure," South says. She reaches out to touch Carolina's hair.

Carolina grabs her wrist in a tight grip, halts her hand inches from Carolina's head. "And if you get an idea, you _ask_ me."

South flexes her wrist against Carolina's fingers, lips parting. "Ask, or tell?"

"Ask," Carolina says. She lets the hint of a smile slide across her face. "It's just good manners."

"Not my strong suit." South's voice is getting thready.

"I know," she says, and slides her hand off South's wrist. South lowers it to her lap. "That's why we're going to practice."

The breath that shudders out of South is somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. She half-frowns and Carolina cuts her off before she can say anything.

"Here, I'll show you." She holds her hands close enough to South's thighs that she can feel the heat sneaking off them. "South, can I touch your legs?"

South runs her tongue absently over her lips. "Knock yourself out."

Carolina runs her fingertips down the outsides of her legs, cups underneath her knees, drags her palms up and underneath the meat of South's thighs to where the line of her shorts starts. "Thank you," she tells South with a smile. She aims for 'sweet', but suspects that she ended up at 'shit-eating.'

The effect is still good, though—South looks like someone yanked the floor out from under her.

"Your turn," Carolina prompts.

South ducks to kiss her, and Carolina turns her face away, keeping her grip on South's thighs. "Nope," she says. "Try again."

South groans. "I'm gonna kiss you now," she says, and Carolina supposes it's a start. Even more promising is how she studies Carolina's face for the okay before she moves.

"Good," Carolina says against her mouth, but then feeling South's fingers thread into her hair, her voice turns sharp. "Stop that."

"God," South mutters. She glares at Carolina from close range. "Can I do that?"

"What, touch my hair?"

"Obviously."

Carolina squeezes with both hands, enjoys the way South's eyes shutter, the way her legs shift in her grip. "Can you say 'thank you for the kiss' first?"

She expects South to roll her eyes, or flop back onto CT's bunk and tell her to fuck off. At least she told her what she needed to, by this point; maybe South'll think twice before using artistic license with mission specs next time.

She doesn't expect what happens, which is South skimming her lips along Carolina's cheek to say, uncharacteristically soft, "Thanks for the kiss, Lina."

CT and South keep their room far too hot, that's the problem.

"Now can I get off this bunk and fuck up your hair?" South asks, and now she's predatory and smiling and this, this is more than Carolina thought she'd be getting.

"Yeah." She takes a half-step back to give South enough room to drop off the bunk. "Go for it."


End file.
